


danse macabre

by bluemccns



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-26 14:24:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13237608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluemccns/pseuds/bluemccns
Summary: a drabble featuring original characters belonging to a friend and myself





	danse macabre

The clack of heeled shoes on stone echoes through the silent corridor before coming to a halt, and a palpable tension saturates the cold, stale air as if the ghosts suspended in it have remained dormant for too long. Not a single breeze sweeps through the tenebrous hall, yet she shudders when a subtle chill kisses the tan skin left exposed by the plunging neckline of her gown. It is his lips—frigid as freshly fallen snow and with the color to match—trailing softly along the slope of her shoulder.  
  
            An arm clothed in black loops around her corseted waist, and her head feels heavy when she turns to look at him. The intricate heap of thick curls and braids secured with a profusion of pins places a strain on her neck that is faintly relieved when his fingers delicately grip her chin, coaxing her glassy golden stare to meet eyes of a brilliant, infinite violet.  
  
            Those eyes enthrall her; she feels something akin to falling as she is held hostage by his bewitching gaze, plummeting increasingly farther from all she has ever known. It takes her a moment to realize they are walking, and another for her ears to register the muted music from the opposite side of weathered wooden doors. The arm around her waist disappears, followed by the groaning of hinges. With a trancelike gait, she crosses the threshold, stepping into the light and toward the sound of violins. When she peers over the balcony, she sees people dancing in the dim glow of torches below, each of them an unrecognizable silhouette.  
  
            Pale hands glide over her arms, and his breath ghosting over her neck raises goosebumps on her flesh. A handful of seconds tick by before the familiar press of his lips over her thrumming pulse soothes any latent anxieties. She surrenders to the sensation of falling again. He laughs softly—a deep rumble in his chest—then guides her to the staircase.  
  
            The dancefloor is a world of its own. Masked strangers whirl past her in a blur of dark clothing as he ushers her toward the congregation. She falls into step with them effortlessly, and he leads her in a waltz she clearly knows, but cannot remember learning.  
  
            Only when he spins her does she notice the color of her gown. Gold trim glimmers against the cream-colored material of her skirt. She frowns at the sight of it, suddenly acutely aware of her contrast to the figures adorned in black. Discomfiture befalls her; she does not look like the others. She  _wants_ to look like the others.  
  
            There is something in his smile that says he knows. He has been expecting this. She seeks reassurance from him, a sense of belonging. All he offers are fingertips smoothing over her jaw and his lips melding with hers in an act of confirmation.


End file.
